


Not Constantinople

by bravofiftyone



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:41:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravofiftyone/pseuds/bravofiftyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something Gaby wants. Nobody is willing to deny her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Constantinople

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pollitt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/gifts).



Solo eyed Kuryakin warily. Losing Gaby was bad enough. The last thing he needed was an exploding Russian to handle as well. But apart from a tell-tale flexing of the hands, Kuryakin appeared calm.

Gaby’s disappearance made no sense. Waverley had already headed back to London with the recovered microfilm, accompanied by a cargo of sulky, beat-up would-be smugglers.

Gaby had insisted on a brief vacation in Istanbul before accepting her next assignment. It had seemed fair to humour her, given her previously austere existence, and there was no evidence of any remaining threat in the city. But neither Solo nor Kuryakin had been prepared to leave her there alone. And of course they could not decide which of them should stay with her.

So all three agents were vacationing, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Solo and Kuryakin had patiently trailed Gaby around the Hagia Sophia and the Grand Bazaar (where Kuryakin’s glare proved a strangely effective deterrent to the pestilential salesmen), bickering and vying lazily for her attention.

Solo had doubled back to a stall where he’d seen Gaby admiring a small silver tea set. She’d accepted it with a singular lack of grace, calling him “ridiculous boy” and pointing out that she didn’t have a home, let alone a place to keep a silver tea set. Solo was horrified. He’d paid money for that gift!

Kuryakin had sneaked out early one morning and rented a boat for an excursion on the Bosphorus. It stopped at a small village where they ate bony fish and excellent bread, and drank some really disgusting red wine. It made Gaby cough, and Kuryakin smile. Solo sniffed it and took one pretentious sip, then emptied his glass into the Bosphorus. He sent a silent apology to the fleeing school of fish.

Gaby smiled at Kuryakin for much too long as the boat tied up near the Galata Bridge. The stakes had just been raised.

 

The next day, Gaby had insisted on visiting a place called The Pudding Club, to try some local delicacy of marinated chicken on a stick. Solo hadn’t liked it much, but Kuryakin put away three servings with a grin. Gaby matched him plate for plate, and seemed pleased with Solo’s grumpy response. He couldn’t seem to do anything right.

It was after their meal that Solo looked up to admire the silhouette of the Sultan Ahmet mosque against the sun, and when he turned around, Gaby had gone. Kuryakin was already scowling around suspiciously. Solo crushed his panic for the sake of appearances, but he was instantly concerned. He forced himself to scan the crowds for a glimpse of her distinctive red dress.

“Stop grinding your teeth, you draw attention.”

Solo drew breath to snipe back, but he had to consciously relax his jaw to do so. Perhaps they were both too conspicuous.

“Let’s walk. Maybe she headed back to the hotel.”

Kuryakin sniffed contemptuously, but he followed as Solo headed back down the hill to the hotel. They were forced into single file by the crowds heading for the Hagia Sophia, and the slow-moving mass of traffic reluctantly giving way to a succession of rattling, screeching trolleybuses.

Stepping into the cool, elegant foyer of the hotel was a relief. Solo was further relieved to see that Gaby’s room key was missing from the concierge’s rack. She must have become lost, and returned to her room to wait. He was about to ask the concierge for the key to their adjacent room, when Kuryakin grabbed his arm and pulled him away.

“Our key is missing too."

Solo squeezed his eyes shut.

“You go to corridor and listen at Gaby’s door. I climb up to balcony, and let you in when room is clear.”

“Really. You want the giant to climb the building, and the cat burglar to wait in the corridor. I don’t think so.”

But Kuryakin had already gone.

Solo walked quickly out to the rear terrace. Fortunately nobody was drinking in the midday sun, so he was able to haul himself onto a side roof without being observed. After only one near-slip, he pulled himself silently away from the drainpipe and onto the balcony of Gaby’s room. As he shifted towards the side of the curtained window, the Russian landed beside him with a small thump.

“You’re late,” he whispered.

“Sorry. Wrong floor.”

Solo could see nothing through the gauzy curtain, and there was nothing to be heard either. He eased the unlocked balcony door open. They cleared the room quickly, finding that nothing seemed to have been disturbed. There was a wet towel on the bathroom floor, but Kuryakin had complained often enough about his “fiancée’s” slovenly habits that Solo was not unduly concerned about it. However he was still concerned as to the whereabouts of said “fiancée”.

They sneaked up on their own hotel room; Kuryakin via the balcony, and Solo simultaneously slipping the lock on the door. What they found made them stop and gape comedically, each only a few feet into the room.

Gaby was stretched out on Solo’s bed, wearing a bathrobe and apparently little else. She gesticulated at a bottle of clear liquid and two glasses on the nightstand.

“At last. I thought you’d got lost! Here, have a drink with me.”

Kuryakin shook his head despairingly.

Gaby swayed as she poured them each a glass, then waved the uncapped bottle in Solo’s direction. Kuryakin took it from her and set it back on the nightstand.

Solo felt somewhat overdressed for the occasion. Whatever the occasion actually was. He removed his jacket and hung it carefully in the wardrobe. He perched on the edge of the bed by Gaby’s feet, and took a healthy swig from his glass. And promptly spat it straight out again, all over the carpet and his own shoes.

“What the hell is this stuff? Satan’s tears?”

Kuryakin, of course, was knocking back his own drink and looking thoughtfully at the bottle.

“Not as good as vodka. But not bad.”

“It’s called Raki. A local speciality. It’s delicious.” Gaby waved her glass emphatically, slopping a little of the drink onto the bed. Solo’s bed.

“Don’t sulk, Napoleon. There’s a bottle of whiskey in that cabinet.”

Without asking how it got into a previously empty cabinet, Solo fetched the whiskey. He carefully rinsed out his glass before pouring several fingers. It was a relief to wash the foul, liquorice taste from his tongue.

Gaby struggled to sit up straight.

“We must go to my room. Bring the drinks.”

She slid gracelessly off the bed. Her legs didn’t seem to want to hold her up, but Solo caught her and offered his arm, and she leaned heavily on him as they processed from one room to the other. He quickly checked that Gaby’s bathrobe was decently arranged before opening the door to the corridor, but there was nobody there to see anyway.

Kuryakin was left to follow with the bottles and glasses.

Gaby climbed into the centre of the enormous bed. Kuryakin handed her her glass. She patted the bed on each side of her in careful succession.

“Come. Sit with me.”

Solo wasn’t sure what was going on, but it seemed pointless to argue. He removed his ruined shoes and set them near the door, and arranged himself at the edge of the bed with his whiskey within reach. Kuryakin was similarly situated on the other side. It wasn’t exactly a huge bed, and it was something of a squash for the three of them, but there was no arguing with Gaby.

“There. That’s better. My boys.”

That was all she said. Solo attempted to start a conversation once, but in the absence of any response from either of his companions, he gave up. They sat, drinking steadily and not talking, as the sun moved away from the windows and the room grew a little darker.

Gaby didn’t seem to be able to sit up properly any more, and she wriggled down the bed until she was lying down with her head on the pillow. Solo thought it was definitely time to leave. He still had no idea what had sent Gaby into this drinking binge, but perhaps she wanted company without having to say. What the Russian did was up to him, but he felt Gaby needed a glass of water and some time to sleep it off.

He made to move over to the bathroom to get the water. Gaby’s hand shot out and caught his wrist.

“No, stay.”

Kuryakin inclined his head towards Solo and shrugged. He moved off the bed slowly.

“You too.”

Kuryakin froze.

“What do you want, chop shop girl? We want to look after you, but you’re not making sense.”

“Stay with me. Both of you.”

Solo shrugged. He had no particular desire to return to his raki-sodden bed anyway.

Gaby, returning from the bathroom, shed her bathrobe and slipped under the covers. It turned out she was wearing something under it, but it was barely worthy of being called clothing. Solo and Kuryakin politely turned away until she was in bed.

Later, Solo removed his vest, trousers, and socks (also stinking of raki) and slipped into bed next to her. When he woke an hour or so later, it was to find Gaby curled against his side and Kuryakin spooned around her, his hand on Solo’s side.

Solo considered freaking out, and went back to sleep instead. Somehow he was not surprised to wake up alone. He wished they’d woken him to send him away, though. They shouldn’t have to struggle with the twin beds.

He was quite surprised when Kuryakin strolled out of the bathroom and slipped back into the bed.

“Where’s Gaby?”

“Our room. Presumably in my bed, because yours is mostly raki.” Kuryakin wrinkled his nose.

“You hated drinking that, didn’t you?”

“Foul stuff. Satan’s tears, indeed.”

“So why did you do it?”

“To annoy you, of course.” Kuryakin’s grin was infectious.

Solo grinned back.

Reluctantly, he started to rise. Kuryakin grabbed his wrist.

“Stay?”

Something clicked in Solo’s brain. He moved closer.

“Is this what you want? Me?”

“It’s what Gaby wants.”

Solo nodded slowly. Who were they to deny her? Though it seemed a little unfair that she wasn’t _here_. Next time, maybe.

Kuryakin proved to be a surprisingly considerate lover. Overly conscious of his bulk, perhaps. Solo wasn't delicate, after all. They didn't try anything too adventurous. for which Solo was grateful. Sleeping with men wasn't really his preference (or at least, it hadn't been). Actually, he'd never done it before. But he was relatively confident he'd want to repeat the experience. 

Afterwards, Solo stretched, and reached for his clothes.

“Get ready. We’re fetching Gaby and going up to the roof to have breakfast. Today is going to be a very good day.”

His pronouncement was met with a light snore. Kuryakin looked young, and more relaxed than Solo had ever seen him. Clothes forgotten, Solo lay back against the pillows. Gaby could wait. 


End file.
